


Something in the Sugar

by cumbercollected



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BDSM, F/M, Fingerfucking, Forced Orgasm, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, PWP, Pegging, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Rope Bondage, Sex Toys, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-27
Updated: 2013-04-14
Packaged: 2017-11-27 01:40:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/656609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cumbercollected/pseuds/cumbercollected
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John came home from a typical day at the surgery, and everything would have gone as normal...if he hadn't added sugar to his tea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Work at the surgery had been incredibly dull that afternoon. It wasn’t fall-asleep-at-the-desk dull by any means, but John’s eyes were drooping with tiredness and his feet were aching from being on his feet all day. Being over-qualified for the position did have merits, mostly monetary in nature, but also its fair share of downsides.  
  
Take today, for instance. He’d given flu shots to three screaming, struggling children and had then spent nearly an hour repeating himself to an elderly lady with Alzheimer’s disease. He enjoyed the nature of his work; helping others was rewarding, but sometimes the tasks involved were just murder. It was a blessed relief that John had Sherlock Holmes to remind him on a regular basis that life didn’t have to be so monotonous. Because if there was one word to describe Sherlock Holmes, it wasn’t monotonous.  
  
Resigning himself to the reality that Sherlock rarely bothered with the shopping these days, John had stopped at the local Tesco on the way home to Baker Street. They were fresh out of milk, as usual, in addition to sugar. John took his coffee unsweetened but he liked a spoonful of sugar in his tea just as much as the next man, although it wasn’t anything close to the sickening amount Sherlock used.  
  
The gilded numbers ‘221’ on the front door welcomed him home, urging him to rest his weary feet within its cozy interior. He took the narrow stairs up to the the flat two steps at a time, only slightly bogged down and thrown off balance with the added weight of the carrier bags.  
  
Upon entering the kitchen he put the milk and other perishable items in the refrigerator. As he moved to place newly purchased bag of sugar inside one of the cabinets, he noticed the sugar jar on the counter. It was more full than it had been yesterday when he’d made the shopping list. Perhaps he’d underestimated Sherlock’s ability to purchase household food staples after all.  
  
John put the kettle on and went about preparing himself a late afternoon cup of Earl Grey. He added his usual one and a half teaspoons of sugar to the mug and then stirred the hot beverage on his way to his favourite squashy armchair in the sitting room. His work-weary feet were screaming at him to sit down and relax for a bit so he did just that.  
  
Sherlock wasn’t home yet. He was probably still at Bart’s doing some sort of experiment with one of the cadavers newly delivered to the mortuary. John hadn’t thought to ask what exactly the experiment entailed, though it was safe to say that Sherlock wouldn’t be arriving home covered in anything slimy or smelly tonight. Hopefully.  
  
John set his cup on the tea table and then brought his hand to his forehead, applying light pressure to a tender spot on the right side of his temple. Apparently his hours at the clinic were taking more of a toll on him than he was used to.  
  
The lightheadedness kicked in as he moved to his feet with the intent of fetching the paracetamol from the bathroom. His knees felt as wobbly as a newborn colt’s and his vision was growing fuzzy around the edges. There was a nauseousness setting in, as well, though he was having trouble remembering if he’d eaten anything questionable for lunch.  
  
A distinct sound of high heels click-clacking against the floorboards penetrated the foggy recesses of his mind. John grasped the back of the armchair to support his weight as he lifted his head, which now felt as though it were filled with lead.  
  
John had a visitor. One that was neither invited nor welcome. At first glance he thought he was seeing things. A hallucination, one of a dark-haired woman strutting toward him in a pair of precariously high stilettos, her slender form clad in nothing but a black see-through lace dress.  
  
 _“You?”_  It couldn’t be. “You’re dead.”  
  
“It would appear the Ice Man isn’t as thorough as we all previously thought, Doctor Watson.”  
  
John let go of the armchair and tried to take a step forward but failed. His knees buckled and then his legs gave out altogether as he tried to right himself.  
  
“Just give it another minute, Doctor Watson. I apologise for the drug’s delayed effect. It’s not as potent when it’s mixed with something else.”  
  
John’s thoughts were muddled but he still had enough sense in him to understand how she’d drugged him. Only one thing had entered his system since he’d returned to the flat.  
  
“The sugar. In the tea.”  
  
“You’re well aware that I’m a fan of your blog. I stole the sugar idea from that gorgeous detective of yours. Does he usually drug you when you go away on holiday together or was that his attempt to liven things up?”  
  
“He’s not my...detective.”  John was slurring his words despite his best attempts to fight the acute effects of the drug.  
  
“Regardless of what he is to you, Doctor, he has something of mine. Something that I need back.”  
  
John’s brows furrowed with confusion. “So you’ve...drugged me?”  
  
“He won’t give it up without proper provocation.”  
  
“What--?” The blurry edges of his vision finally closed in, forcing John to resign himself to darkness.

* * *

 

 _Sherlock was dashing toward him down a long corridor that continuously extended itself. There was something holding John back. Sherlock was trying so desperately hard to reach him. Perhaps he ought to call out, to convince Sherlock that it was useless to keep running when neither of them could reach one another?_  
  
 _The walls kept changing colour at a mind-boggling speed. A woman’s voice permeated his thoughts. The Woman’s. She was his deterrent to reaching Sherlock. He felt her red-taloned fingernails grip his waist as he was pulled backward, away, against his will._  
  
John groaned, his heavy lids fighting to pry themselves apart. The light was so bright. Too bright. It made his head ache to the point where he felt sick from the pain of it. He wanted to bring his hand up to shield his eyes but he couldn’t muster enough energy to lift a single finger.  
  
Unconsciousness reared its ugly head once more, pulling him under and forcing him to relinquish his control. “No...” he protested weakly, struggling to keep himself awake.  
  
 _Irene Adler was peering down at him, her thin lips stretched into a Cheshire grin and painted an opaque claret. A hot, glittery substance emanated from her parted lips with each exhale. John breathed in the strange powder, his insides gnawing as its raw heat consumed him from the inside out. It must’ve been some hallucinogenic for it changed Irene’s form to a horribly disfigured two-headed monster. The monster’s flesh slowly melted to a glimmering puddle on the floor and Sherlock emerged from the liquid remains, his cupid bow’s mouth breathing out the same glittery particles. His glacier blue eyes never once left the doctor’s; he simply loomed over John, all six feet of him._  
  
“Sherlock!” he screamed as he awoke, his body drenched in cold sweat. His vision was still blurry but he managed to make out a tall, dark figure. He instantly knew who it was even though he couldn’t see her face. He just knew she was there, watching him. Biding her time. His skin prickled as he felt feel her eyes roving over his limp body. His eyes fluttered closed to escape her shadow and he lost consciousness for the third time.  

* * *

  
A noise disturbed him. It wasn’t jarringly loud but it was enough to rouse him awake. His eyes took a moment to open and adjust, and he let out a loud groan. His head was pounding.  
  
“Sherlock, dear. I’ve been expecting you.” Her voice was deceptively soothing. There was a thick layer of deviousness lurking beneath the surface.  
  
 _Sherlock?_ John blinked twice, unable to move his head at the proper angle needed in order to look at his flatmate. The room was spinning, and he used all his energy to focus on Irene’s figure, the only thing in his field of vision. He saw two of her face, the outline shimmering around the edges. But then slowly, the two Adlers came together and merged into one. He stared blearily back at her, and then glanced around at his surroundings.  
  
Bedroom. Sherlock’s bedroom. One look down and, seeing the bedsheets, he realised he was actually _on_ the bed. He was _kneeling_ on the bed.  
  
But no. No, not just kneeling.  
  
 _Tied._


	2. Chapter 2

John’s heart rate quickened to an uncomfortable pace in his chest as he realised the sort of trouble he was in.  
  
His arms were fastened securely behind his back with rope. A soft burn in his upper arm muscles paralleled the rope rubbing against the flesh of his wrists. He was positioned on his knees and his arse stuck straight up in the air. Something cold and metallic spread his legs wide apart, keeping him from moving them freely.  
  
Sherlock stood in the doorway. He was so still that his chest hardly lifted with each intake of breath. The red ball gag in John’s mouth obstructed his speech so he could only stare at Sherlock with wild, imploring eyes, silently willing him to put a stop to this madness.  
  
Sherlock’s expression was guarded but Irene was able to read it just fine.  
  
“Don’t be afraid, darling. Take a seat.” She motioned to a chair that was positioned at the head of the bed, angled towards John’s naked and exposed body. Sherlock followed her command without hesitation and sat down with his feet flat on the floor and his legs spread apart, posture rigid. His gripped the arms of the wooden chair so tight that his knuckles blanched themselves of colour.    
  
“You already know why I’m here, don’t you, love?” Irene asked Sherlock, the gentle words spilling out from her lips. Her mouth was painted a vibrant red, echoing the same shade from John’s dream.    
  
“Of course I do,” Sherlock snapped, clearly insulted.  
  
Irene let out a small, wry chuckle. “Touchy,” she taunted. “So are you agreeing to hand it over, then? No harm done?”  
  
Sherlock’s eyes briefly sought John’s. “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”  
  
“Why not?” Gone was the pleasant, sing-song cadence to her voice. She supplied an answer before Sherlock had a chance to do so himself. “Because of the custom data chip I had made?”  
  
John blinked as he absorbed this new information. Of course. Despite being stripped of all its top secret files, the camera phone was still Irene Adler’s life- hence her ordering a custom data chip designed to fit her phone and no one else’s. The phone would be reactivated, allowing her to access everything she’d previously used as leverage. Sherlock couldn’t allow that to happen again, and for her to collect new information to use as blackmail. Mycroft wouldn’t be nearly as forgiving a second time around.  
  
“A custom data chip?” Sherlock asked. “Impossible.”  
  
“No, no, Mr. Holmes,” Irene admonished as if scolding a child. “Improbable, yes. But not impossible. Surely you of all people should be able to understand that.”  
  
John could tell that Sherlock’s head was reeling from the implications of his relinquishing control of the camera phone. If Irene regained access that kind of information it would only be used to her advantage.  
  
“I’m taking your silence as a ‘no’ to my request, then? That’s a shame,”  Irene sighed, although her voice wasn’t laced with disappointment. She sauntered to a black purse-like pouch near the foot of the bed. “Any chance I can persuade you?”  
  
“I’m sure you already have a plan to just that. Otherwise John wouldn’t be held captive atop my bed.”  
  
Irene brandished something from the pouch and held it up for Sherlock to see. “Quite right.”  
  
John couldn’t see the device from his position on the bed but Sherlock’s fleeting flinch told him everything he needed to know. He tried to fight his binds again but to no avail. Irene was a dominatrix through and through, and she had thoroughly ensured the knots were tied to restrict unnecessary movement in his arms.  
  
“Hush, love. Mummy and Daddy are talking,” she chided, placing her hand on top of John’s right arsecheek. Her warm palm caressed his skin in circles the same way in which one would stroke a small dog.   
  
“Give it to me,” Irene insisted in just above a whisper, her voice laced with the intentions of what would come to pass if Sherlock continued to refuse.  
  
Sherlock’s answer was short and simple. It was one that John had expected to hear but it was never the less painful given what was at stake. “No.”  
  
John’s gag muffled his cry as Irene’s hand ruthlessly slapped the sensitive flesh of his backside. “Last chance to reconsider, Mr. Holmes.”  
  
Sherlock’s attention was now focused on John so he didn’t say anything. His only answer was a small, nearly imperceptible shake of his head.  
  
Irene paused for a moment, as if she was contemplating the sincerity of Sherlock’s refusal. She bent down and reached into her velvet bag, pulling out a clear tube of lubricant. Sherlock remained still as his attention continuously shifted from Irene’s actions to John’s face.    
  
John flinched as he felt a cool, wet fingertip slowly travel down the crack of his arse. A fingernail lightly grazed over the puckered flesh of his entrance.  
  
“There is a certain technique,” Irene purred at Sherlock, her voice low and sensual. Her hands slid up to grip John’s arse cheeks and she pulled them apart. John grunted in discomfort as he felt cool air come into contact with such a private place. “You have to be careful or else the nail can accidentally cause more pain than you want.”  
  
Irene’s nimble fingers tickled the underside of John’s shriveled testicles before moving back up to the area they’d previously skimmed over. Her touch turned invasive as the tip of her finger began to prod at his hole. John let out a whimper of warning as he thrashed about, attempting to throw her off.  
  
Irene simply grabbed the side of his arse with her other hand, holding him steady. Her nails bit into his flesh and left red crescent indents in their wake. “Be a good boy, Johnny,” she murmured, slipping the tip of her finger inside his body.  
  
John’s entrance was tight and unaccustomed to such an intrusion. His instinct was to fight it, to get it out, but Irene’s touch was too experienced. She’d done this plenty of times before: eventually coaxing unwilling participants to give in to her whims.  
  
“Relax or it’ll hurt more than it has to, dear,” she soothed.  
  
 _Relax_? John wanted to laugh at the utter insanity of it all. He tried yet again to pull his arms apart but the restraints simply chafed uncomfortably against his flesh, serving as a reminder that he was well and truly at her mercy.  
  
John looked to Sherlock pleadingly. Why couldn’t he just give over the damned phone that Irene so desperately wanted? Why couldn’t he say something witty to delay the inevitable?  
  
John briefly wondered if this had to do with some underlying attraction between Adler and Sherlock - a twisted, fucked up attraction that had somehow led to him being caught in the middle. The thought of being a mere pawn on a chessboard was infuriating. Withholding the phone for the good of the nation’s security was one thing, but John was _not_ going to suffer through this for Sherlock’s own interests.  
  
“Enough!” Sherlock bit out. John was beyond thankful that his flatmate was stopping this madness. It had taken him long enough.  
  
Irene was still inside of him, just enough to keep his ring of muscle stretched around her second knuckle. “Enough? But you haven’t heard the best part.” She brandished another phone she used for daily use; one she’d been using ever since relinquishing ownership of the camera phone now in Sherlock’s possession.  
  
Sherlock sat back, stunned. He blinked a few times to regain his composure. “Ah, of course. I knew there had to be something else.” He narrowed his eyes. “How many are there?”  
  
“Enough to ruin your reputation. Enough to force you to give up this cute little game of yours. Running around London, playing detective. The papers would just love these, Mr. Holmes. The man in the funny hat and his faithful sidekick turn out to be an item after all? The scandal would keep the press in a tizzy for _months_.”  
  
John immediately knew what Irene had done. She'd taken pictures. Pictures of him tied up, nude and unconscious on the bed. She was a master of exploitation, sullying the images of the high and mighty. It was just like her to jump at an opportunity to snap a few pictures before Sherlock had returned from Bart’s.  
  
The images would ruin everything Sherlock had built, what _they_ had built, and the tabloids would rip them apart. No client would ever want to be associated with a sex scandal. Sherlock’s relationship with Lestrade, his credibility at crime scenes, his privilege at St. Bart’s - all would be damaged if the pictures went public. John’s reputation would be dragged through the mud, tainting his past national service and surely putting an end to his career at the surgery. There was no other choice. Sherlock wouldn’t give up the phone nor could he stop Adler.  
  
John let out a muffled groan and Sherlock trained his eyes on him. He gave a short nod, signalling for Sherlock to allow the woman’s actions to continue. This only served to amuse Irene.  
  
“Well, look at that,” she jeered, her long nails trailing over his skin. Goose pimples rose to the surface of wherever she touched. “He’s so loyal. You’ve trained him well, Sherlock.”  
  
“I didn’t do a thing,” Sherlock objected quietly, his attention still focused on John. Something changed in the detective’s expression, something that caused a warm knot to take shape in the pit of John’s stomach. Perhaps it was his odd way of thanking John for saving both of their reputations, but there was a flicker of something else as well. It wasn’t arousal but it was close and yet inherently Sherlockian: interest. Interest in _him_. “He came like that.”  
  
“I applaud your choice of words,” Irene smirked. “Because he certainly will come. Just like this.”  
  
Irene worked her finger up to the last knuckle. She began small thrusting motions with the digit, adding more lubricant whenever she felt any resistance. John wouldn’t call his body’s reaction to Adler’s fingering ‘relaxing’, but the sensation no longer felt as alien as it had during the initial penetration. A second finger was slowly introduced and Irene began to scissor the two digits within his body to stretch him even further.  
  
“Are you liking what you’re seeing, Mr. Holmes?” came Irene’s voice.  
  
John looked over to Sherlock once more and saw that both of his hands were clenched into fists. His cheeks were flushed pink and his eyes were wild and no longer guarded.  
  
Irene gently extracted her fingers from John’s body, taking care not to scratch him on her way out. “Don’t worry, Mr. Holmes,” he could hear her say. “The fun has only just started.”  
  
Behind him, John heard something buckle and snap into place. It made his heart lurch in his chest and momentarily robbed him of breath. When he was capable of breathing out through his nose again, he started to hyperventilate.  
  
“Get ready for a show, Mr. Holmes.”


	3. Chapter 3

John was going to be sick.  
  
Sherlock sported a blank face with a small exception which gave away his true interest. His eyes held a familiar gleam, the same gleam that lit up his features when he was seconds away from solving a case. Did that mean he was _intrigued_ by what was going on? Was he intrigued by John? The thought abated John’s nausea though it wasn’t enough to stop his heart from incessantly pounding out a rhythm in his chest.  
  
John’s attention abruptly shifted from Sherlock back to his current predicament as he felt a foreign, unyielding protuberance brush up against his hole. His inner muscles involuntarily clenched to ward off the intrusion of the larger object.  
  
Irene swatted his bum in reprimand and he moaned against the ball gag. A dribble of drool escaped from the corner of his mouth to run sluggishly down his chin.  
  
“Relax, John,” she urged, circling three of her lube-slicked fingertips around his sphincter. His body betrayed him after a few seconds as he felt his muscles loosen.  
  
John let out a muffled yelp of pain as his entrance was breached by the thick, blunt object. Irene pushed it in slowly, giving his body ample opportunity to adjust to its size. It seemed to go on for ages...the unpleasant, stuffed sensation of something wedging deeper inside of him.  
  
Irene paused in her actions. Her hairless thighs pressed against the back of John’s, signaling to him that she had bottomed out.  
  
“Have I swayed you yet, Mr. Holmes?” she taunted. She was so close to him now that John could feel her breath ghost across his skin. It gave him the chills and he squirmed in discomfort. “Or do you need to see more?” Her sickly sweet voice caused another ripple of shivers to travel up the length of his spine.  
  
Sherlock remained silent, his eyes fixed on Irene.  
  
No other words were exchanged to give John any sort of preparation. Suddenly the fullness was gone. The silicone cock slowly eased out of his body until just the rounded tip was left inside of him, keeping him stretched around its considerable girth.  
  
The lube cap flipped open again. When Irene gingerly pushed back inside, the toy felt cooler and slippery from the added lubricant.  
  
John could sense that Irene was holding back, her considerable experience guiding her through the motions. She pushed deeper still, angling her hips slightly. The blunt head of the dildo brushed up against the small bump of his prostate.  
  
The movement ripped a strangled sob from his lips. Another shudder ran through him, only this time it wasn’t out of fear or even pain. Irene immediately understood. She effortlessly reached one slender arm around the front of his body and wrapped her hand around his flaccid cock.  
  
Her hand was so warm and soft. Of course he had felt a woman’s hand around his prick before, but never in such circumstances. He had been single for some time, so Irene’s hand in place of his own felt just as wonderful as it did horrific.  
  
Heat began to pool in his stomach. A strange combination of desire and dread filled him up, fucking with his sense of stability.  
  
John felt his cock begin to swell and harden under her touch. He closed his eyes, bitterly reflecting that never took much for him to get hard. Irene wasn’t even wanking him for his benefit. The more she pushed him, the more sway she would have over Sherlock. It was that simple, that selfish.  
  
John knew he shouldn’t have ever allowed Sherlock to keep that phone. He should have put it back in the plastic evidence bag, sealed it up tight and returned it to Mycroft. Now his weak resolve where Sherlock was concerned had come back to bite him. Irene was using his body. It qualified as the worst sort of torture. And yet, as much as he despised her for doing it, it was nevertheless erotic given that Sherlock’s attention was now fixated on him.  
  
Irene picked up the pace once she noticed that Sherlock was watching intently, her actions earning a loud grunt from John. The contact with his prostate that had once been minimal and fleeting was now insistent.  
  
The sound of flesh continually smacking flesh cut through their laboured breathing. Irene’s thrusts were even and followed a steady rhythm. John found himself pushing back, further impaling himself on the toy.  
  
There was no denying the hot, ceaseless sparks of electricity which ran through him, only further intensified by the knowledge that Sherlock was watching his every move.  
  
“Somebody’s excited,” Irene cooed, her hand slipping away from John’s arousal. He whimpered as her warm touch left him and immediately berated himself for it.  
  
“I like him like this, don’t you, Mr. Holmes?” Her voice was like ice, but it did nothing to cool his body, which she had managed to set aflame despite his protestations.  
  
She gave a particularly hard thrust. The noise John made was one of pain despite the direct contact it afforded to his prostate.  
  
Irene chuckled, roving her hands over the small of his back. “You should consider yourself lucky, John. My clients pay a hefty sum for the services you’re receiving for free.”  
  
John had a wide-range of retorts, and he would have used them all if the gag hadn’t obstructed his speech.  
  
Irene murmured appreciatively, her hands sensually trailing over John’s back before coming to rest at his pelvis. She grabbed either side of his hips at the bone and used them to pull John backward against the slick strap-on.  
  
John let out a needy whine that escalated into a constant stream of broken whimpers. He could tell by the strength of Irene’s grip that she was no longer holding back, and for some reason this was just as exciting as it was terrifying. John had never felt as utterly submissive as he did in this moment, helpless to the point that someone was using his body like it was something he gave away freely and often.  
  
Irene’s measured thrusts were relentless, providing his prostate with constant contact and his body with constant pleasure. His mind was numbed to a state where he could comprehend nothing save for Irene and the constant push and pull of the thick cock inside of him.  
  
She leant over him, bending down so her mouth was a hairsbreadth away from his ear. He shivered as her hot, ragged breath cooled the sweaty skin at the nape of his neck. “Look at him, John. What do you see?”  
  
John managed to lift his head from the mattress long enough to spare Sherlock another glance. What he saw set his nerves on edge, causing his cock to give a violent jerk beneath him.  
  
“Shall I tell you what I see?” she whispered conspiratorially. John averted his gaze and licked his dry lips, desperately hoping that Sherlock couldn’t pick up on the conversation or the flames of arousal which were steadily burning him from the inside out. “I see a lonely, tortured man who has written off his feelings for you as pure nonsense from the very start. But those feelings, John? They’re resurfacing with a brutal intensity every time your face contorts in pleasure. Every time you rock back against me, every time your cock twitches and little beads of precum collect at the head.” To emphasise her point, she grasped his erection once more and thumbed the sticky tip where his foreskin had retracted.  
  
“Sherlock?” John tried, but the name was muffled against the gag.  
  
Sherlock’s eyes burned with unmistakable hatred for Irene. But the hatred was interlaced with undeniable passion, both for John and for what Irene was doing to him. What Sherlock was watching. Because, John realised, Sherlock was watching – all of it. Taking in every detail. Every movement, every sound.  
  
John focused on Sherlock in an attempt to ground himself to earth, to reality. In doing so his eyes caught something he hadn’t been prepared to see: a tent pitched in Sherlock’s trousers. Another spike of arousal reverberated through his core at the sight. Sherlock...aroused? It was something John would have considered impossible and yet here Sherlock was. Turned on by this. By _him_?  
  
The build-up of tension became unbearable. There was no more room for it, no place for it to go except out of his body. John struggled for breath but the gag prevented him from drawing the deep, satisfying inhalations he knew would clear his head.  
  
“Oh, yes,” Irene purred in encouragement. Her hand continuously worked from the base to the tip of his leaking cock, her wrist movements in tandem to the repetitive thrusts. “Go on, John, come for him. Come for your Sherlock.”  
  
 _For Sherlock_? John’s vision went white, and in a rush of raw lust he felt the release seize the entirety of his body. It frayed every fiber of his being, forcing violent shivers out of him.  
  
Irene gradually slowed her pace as John clenched himself around the synthetic cock. He moaned helplessly against the gag, body tense and still as the last few strands of ejaculate spurted out of him and onto Sherlock’s bed sheets. Irene’s hand continued to pleasure his cock until the friction was burgeoning on painful.  
  
She slowly pulled out and John groaned at the abrupt sensation of hollow emptiness.  
  
Sherlock arched a single brow as he watched Irene collect her equipment. John squirmed, feeling sweaty and sticky and in desperate need of a bath. He watched the play of emotions on Sherlock’s face. The detective’s brow was furrowed in a way that meant he was searching for a answer. “That’s all?”  
  
 _That’s all!?_ John thought with a snarl.   _I got my arse fucked and you just sat there and watched it happen. What the bloody hell do you mean, that’s all?_  
  
“It’s been a pleasure, Mr. Holmes,” she smirked, picking up the velvet bag off the floor. She looked at John, contemplating whether or not to release him so she could collect the restraints.  
  
“I’ll let you two keep those. John probably wouldn’t mind using them again, would you, dear?”  
  
John just stared at her, aghast. Rage returned in full force now that the short-lived pleasure of the situation was over.  
  
“What about the phone?” Sherlock prompted, bringing Irene’s attention back to him.  
  
“What about it?” Irene asked. “It was wiped, as I recall. I have no further use for it.”  
  
“So the data chip was a lie, then. A ruse.” Sherlock wiped one shaking hand down his flushed face before continuing, “What about the photos?”  
  
“For my eyes only,” Irene reassured. “And it will stay that way unless you do something that warrants them going public. You have my word.”  
  
“But you said –”  
  
“I said a lot of things,” she interrupted with a cryptic smile. “Don’t worry yourself, love.”  
  
Irene bridged the distance between them and stroked the back of her hand over his face, stopping just before reaching his cupid’s bow. “Goodbye, Mr. Holmes.”  
  
As she walked out through the doorway, John’s urge to fight against his bonds was renewed. He wanted to chase after her. He wanted to hurt her until she screamed.  
  
Sherlock drew in a shaky breath once the door was closed and then rose from his seat to release John from his restraints. The first item to go was the gag. John let out a ragged sigh and began to flex his jaw to get rid of the dull ache.  
  
“Are you all right?” Sherlock questioned, clambering onto the bed to untie the ropes binding John’s wrists to his back.  
  
“I’m a lot of things, Sherlock, but I’m definitely not _all right_ ,” John seethed. There was a burgeoning soreness spreading all over him that would last for days. Every time he moved he would be reminded of what had happened. “Jesus...”  
  
His eyes shifted from staring blankly at the wall to Sherlock, who was sitting stiffly on the edge of the bed, not saying a word. “Don’t just sit there!” John snapped in frustration. “Grab me some clothes!”  
  
Under normal circumstances, John would have commented on how rare it was for Sherlock to do anything for him. But things were as far from normal as they had ever been before. John was too physically and mentally exhausted to do anything besides pull on the pair of pyjama bottoms that Sherlock tossed his way.  
  
“I need a shower.”  
  
Sherlock nodded his head as his eyes flitted back and forth across John’s face, no doubt trying to figure out how the hell to respond appropriately.  
  
“How the hell did she get in here, anyway?”  
  
“She’s a professional, John. That was hardly a problem for her.”  
  
John shook his head and rolled off the bed, slowly limping his way towards the door. “Yeah, well, after that fiasco we need to professional-proof our fucking flat. You didn’t look too surprised to see her.”  
  
With his hand on the doorknob, John paused. “You didn’t look too surprised to see her...” he repeated under his breath. He turned around, staring dumbfounded at Sherlock’s pale face. “You knew she was alive, didn’t you?”  
  
Sherlock’s blanched face gave away the answer altogether. John shook his head in disbelief.  
“You knew? And you didn’t think to tell me? You didn’t think it was something I should know?”  
  
“John, I –”  
  
“Forget it. Just forget it,” John cut in, wrenching open the door and heading out into the hallway. “I’m having my shower.”  
  
A shower would calm his mind and wash off the disgusting feeling that was on his skin. Even if it couldn’t wash away the feeling inside of him, the feeling which scarred him, at least a hot shower would physically clean him of the sweat, lube and semen.  
  
After slamming the bathroom door behind him and turning on the shower, John stepped into the piping hot spray. He let out a gasp from the temperature but forced himself to grow accustomed to it. He methodically washed every inch of himself, paying special attention to the areas that _she_ had touched.  
  
It was only when his skin was bright red and raw from the scrubbing and rinsing that John decided he needed to face his flat mate once more, even if he didn’t want to.


	4. Chapter 4

John ventured from his bedroom an hour later, his hair still slightly damp from the shower. Holding up his loose fitting pyjama bottoms with one hand, he descended the stairs one by one. With every step down, the pit in his stomach grew. He did _not_ want to have this discussion. He’d rather drink himself into a stupor than spend another minute dwelling on how his life had plummeted to an absolute wreck within a matter of hours.

But there wasn’t any real way to skirt around the issue, was there? It wasn’t as if Sherlock would leave him alone for longer than a few hours’ time.

When John finally mustered up enough resolve to step forth onto the dusty, hardwood floor of the sitting room, he found Sherlock in his usual spot on the armchair. He’d probably _been_ waiting for John in that exact position for the entirety of the shower.

John didn’t acknowledge his flatmate’s restless presence as he gingerly sat himself down on the edge of the squashy red chair opposite. The pain in his rear prohibited him from sinking further back into the cushions as was his habit.

“I wasn’t keeping anything from you, John,” Sherlock started, leaning forward in the armchair with his elbows on his knees and his fingers steepled together before his lips.

“That’s sure as hell how it seems.”

“If I could have prevented this I would have. I’m sorry.”

John stopped himself short of snapping back as those last two words filled the silence of the room and resonated within him. _Sherlock was sorry. He was apologising_. That in itself was a miracle.

But miracle or not, the apology made him realise that even though he could be angry with Sherlock for as long as he wanted, it wasn’t entirely the man’s fault. John was taking out every ounce of his tortuous hurt and anger on Sherlock. There was no other person to redirect it save for him. “I know.”

More silence. The city traffic was the only sound to cut through it all.

“I’ll put the kettle on.”

John lifted his head at that. The detective’s apologies almost always came in the form of drinks, so at least the sudden hospitality made a bit more sense. It was just another way for Sherlock to express what he couldn’t possibly put into words.

Sherlock set about preparing the tea. John listened for the clinking sound of the sugar jar before calling out, “No sugar, Sherlock.”

“You always take sugar with your tea,” Sherlock said slowly, mentally assessing this alteration in John’s routine.

A jarring retort was on the tip of John’s tongue but he was able to restrain himself with the reminder that he couldn’t take his frustration out on Sherlock anymore. Snapping at him for something as inconsequential as tea wouldn’t solve anything.

“Adler drugged me with it.” The few simple words felt thick and foreign on his tongue.

Sherlock immediately formed the connection. “Baskerville?”

“Yes, she likes the blog. Big fan.” He cleared his throat, willing himself to forget the apparent triumph on Adler’s face as she had towered over him, watching the effects of the drug kick in. “Dump the whole lot. I bought a new bag, anyway.”

Sherlock sat down across from him and reached over, offering him the mug of tea. John took it without thanking him. There was a tension between them now, an uncomfortable stiffness that John couldn’t be bothered to fix. Not right now. He was exhausted, and he just wanted to finish his cup of tea and then go to sleep. Maybe then he could forget everything that had happened.

\---

As John neared the dregs of his tea, his mind finally came to terms with the fact that his body could no longer ignore its trauma. He set the nearly empty mug on the side table, flopped his head on the back of the chair in a display of exhaustion and sighed.

“Come on,” Sherlock said, pulling the man to his feet. “Let’s get you to bed.”

Knowing sleep was the best possible remedy, John allowed Sherlock to lead him to his bedroom. The ascent that was normally so effortless only exacerbated the bone-deep tiredness plaguing every fibre of his body.

It was because of this exhaustion that John’s pretences temporarily melted away as they neared the top of the staircase. He hooked one arm around Sherlock’s shoulder and the other across his chest. It made it easier for the both of them to finish the trip to John’s bedroom.

Sherlock pushed open the door with his foot and John immediately made for his bed. Consciousness already drifting away, he watched his flatmate’s shadow flit about the room, closing the blinds and turning off the lights.

 ---

Within an hour, John woke up screaming. He was drenched in cold sweat and his heart was pounding so hard he could hear its pulse in his eardrums.

Sherlock’s figure appeared in the doorway in less than five seconds after the screaming had ended. It took him less than two to deduce what had happened. “A nightmare?”

John didn’t respond; he was too mortified to admit that Irene Adler had been the sole cause of the night terror. Instead, he pushed himself to a seated position and pinched the bridge of his nose to ward off a pounding headache.

Sherlock sat down on the edge of the bed and tucked his bare feet up under him. “John, what you went through...”

John grimaced at the euphemism. “Didn’t have much of a choice, did I?”

“No, you did,” Sherlock insisted, “You could have refused and allowed us to face the consequences.”

Sherlock did have a point. It would have been a difficult choice. Even if there hadn’t been the slightest chance of recovering from such a scandal, the pair of them could have tried to persevere through the nasty headlines and loss of interested clients.

And yet Sherlock’s career meant the world to him. John had accepted that when he’d signaled for Sherlock to allow Irene to continue. Was he really that obvious? Apparently so. He’d sacrificed his sanity and bodily integrity for Sherlock and had received nothing in return save for an apologetic cup of tea.

Sighing in defeat, John bowed his head. He felt a light pressure on his shoulder. It wasn’t anything more than a squeeze. That didn’t matter, because all he could think about was that Sherlock was actually _comforting_ him.

“I...I don’t think I could have faced that with such bravery,” Sherlock admitted after a lengthy silence.

John wanted to brush it off and explain that his bravery had been instilled in him from the very  first day of army training. Instead he kept the remark to himself. “Your brother told me once that bravery was the kindest word for stupidity.”

“What you did wasn’t stupid,” Sherlock snapped. The venom in his tone startled John and made him look up.  

When neither of them broke eye contact, it was Sherlock who eventually blinked and averted his eyes. He was obviously on edge from the unfamiliar territory of the conversation. Trying his best to be mindful of this, John waited patiently for him to continue.

After a few more beats of silence, Sherlock heaved a sigh and gave a short glance in John’s direction, just to see if he was still listening. “Thank you.”

John looked into his eyes as much as the dim light of the room would allow and tried to remember the last time he’d heard those words directed at him with such honesty. But he was tired about this being about him. Sherlock had been forced to watch. And, if John recalled correctly, Sherlock had grown aroused in doing so.

That impossible sight had been admittedly thrilling at the time, but given that the scene had been so intense and so strange, John didn’t know what to make of it all. And while he could easily dismiss what he had seen unimportant, something inside stopped him from pushing it aside. This needed to be addressed.

With an awkward clearing of the throat, John began to broach the topic. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about you...watching,” John managed. “I saw...I mean, when I was looking at you -- I didn’t mean to --”

“You saw that I had an erection,” Sherlock stated bluntly.

“Yeah, I did,” John answered. “I just hadn’t been expecting you, of all people --”

“I’m not asexual, John. I’m capable of such physiological reactions as you are now well aware.”

“I didn’t say that!” John insisted. “It’s just...I didn’t think I’d be the one to trigger such a reaction out of you, is all.”

Sherlock remained terribly quiet throughout the explanation. “It’s okay,” John assured him, understanding how he must feel. “It’s fine. It’s all fine.”

Sherlock canted his head to the side. “Are you sure?”

John furrowed his brows, confused as to what Sherlock was referring to, exactly. Sure about what?

Sherlock’s began to stand, his hand dropping from John’s shoulder. John grabbed his wrist, unwilling to let the man get off that easy after asking such an ambiguous question.

Sherlock blinked but John just stared up at him quietly. His grasp on Sherlock’s wrist slipped, and instead, his fingers entwined with the other’s, holding his cold hand in a sweaty, awkward connection. Sherlock smiled as he gave John’s hands a squeeze and then let go, walking toward the door.

“Would you like to go back to sleep?” Sherlock asked him. “If not we can put on some tea, watch some crap telly...maybe play a game of Cluedo.”

“I’ll pass on the Cleudo, though a cup of tea sounds lovely.” John managed a small smile and rolled out of bed, not bothering to fix up his sheets. He spent the next few hours sitting in his chair, occasionally drifting in and out of sleep to the lulling sounds of Sherlock’s violin.

\--

A nice day like this one was a rarity in London. The sun was absolutely stunning, shining all its warmth on the Londoners below. There was hardly any wind, not a cloud in the sky. Naturally, the park was fairly busy and filled with couples holding hands, children playing and dogs bounding after one another.

She was sitting on a bench with her legs crossed, her shoe nearly dangling off her suspended feet. She was reading up on the latest celebrity gossip and simply enjoying the world through the tinted windows of her sunglasses.

“Is this seat taken?”

Irene glanced up from her magazine and spared the well-dressed gentleman standing before her a fleeting glance. “No, not at all.”

The wooden bench creaked under their combined weight. Despite being in a public place she stiffened slightly, instinctively untrusting. As rare as it was for him to meet anyone in person, she had refused to send the photographs to him, lest he use them against the promise she had made to Sherlock.

“You’ve got something for me?” he inquired, reaching into his jacket to take out a piece of gum. He unwrapped it and chewed off the end until it disappeared entirely into his mouth. He canted his head slightly in her direction and gave her a predatory smile.

She passed the phone to him, her eyes still focused on the advice column she was pretending to read. He was mostly silent as he perused the pictures, though he occasionally hummed his approval in a way that made her skin crawl.

After what seemed like ages he finally placed the phone between them on the wooden surface of the bench. “And Sherlock?”

“Affected, just like you thought he would be.” Irene reached down between them and picked up the phone, not letting the device leave her sight.

“I’m rarely wrong.” He let out a chuckle and draped his arm across the back of the bench, casually taking in the people around him. “When Sherlock falls, John will fall just as hard.” He smirked, treating this bit of information like an inside joke between the pair of them. “I owe Sherlock that much.”

She turned a page without offering a reply. He was silent for a long while and the air was thick with his expectation for her to say something else, but his personal affairs were not for her to comment on.

He must have finally ceded to the fact that she was here on business and nothing more when he stood and brushed off his trousers.

“I don’t normally conduct business in person, Miss Adler.” His tone was scolding with a subtle hint of annoyance as he looked around the pair of them, and then up at the sky, as if basking in the good weather. “But this delicate matter required some exceptions on my part. Expect your payment to be deposited at the end of the month.”

Irene nodded her head, grateful that this exchange was nearly finished. Jim Moriarty wanted proof that the photographs existed, and she had given it to him. There wasn’t any need to draw this out.

“A pleasure doing business with you, Irene. As always.” He pushed his sunglasses futher back on the bridge of his nose. “Don’t let anything happen to those pictures.”

She closed the magazine and placed it on her lap, giving him a curt nod in farewell. “Same to you, Jim.” Irene didn’t move from the bench until Jim’s receding figure blended in with the crowd, until he was nothing more but a faceless, nameless pedestrian. She looked down at her phone, and then down the path on which the most dangerous man in London had just vanished.

She opened up the file folder which housed the pictures. She took a deep breath, bit her red-painted lips and deleted them - one by one.

\---

 

**FIN**


End file.
